


the drift

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, Illegal Race Driver, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is an illegal race driver, and days before his race, a waiter catches his eye in a cafe and suddenly Zayn wants to impress. Little did Zayn know though, that this was probably the best idea of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the drift

Zayn grinned as he turned sharply around a red, rusted barrel. Putting his foot on the gas, Zayn shot forward out of his seat slightly and the adrenaline rush that came with it was _excruciatingly_ delightful. Zayn gripped the steering wheel, feeling the cotton cover of it beneath his fingertips.  
  
Zayn lets out a whoop of laughter as he takes over the shiny, blue convertible in front of him. Zayn can see Harry on the sideline near the finish. The buildings behind him were graffitied, empty and deserted. They were totally isolated and Zayn knew he can be as loud as he wanted.  
  
The normal crowd, that attend almost every event, stand at the two barrels and a container that indicates that it’s the finish. Zayn zooms over it, the fumes coming out of the exhaust pipe in ridiculous amounts that’s probably unhealthy for the earth, but after all, Zayn wasn’t all that caring.  
  
Cheers erupt around him, crowds envelope Zayn’s car and Zayn almost glares at the beers being spilt on the glossy, ebony hood of _his_ car, almost. But adrenaline surges through him for the upteenth time and he’s being hauled out of the car by various different hands.  
  
Zayn is passed about whilst his car is being driven away by the usual renters. Zayn never has a chance to say bye to it, which he should be fairly pissed off about but he isn’t, because he _won_.  
  
Lips are at his neck, on his cheek, the lips of a showgirl and Zayn can’t find the energy to push them away. Zayn laps up the attention before his heart is slowly losing it’s erratic state and finally beginning to beat normally.  
  
Zayn turns to run towards his old, beat up car behind the building and get out of the heat, but a pair of very familiar hands grip his hips and move him away from the crowd. Zayn leans back into Harry’s embrace and finally Harry is shoving him in the car in the back alley.  
  
“Christ, the crowd gets bigger every, _fucking_ , night.” Harry exasperates, running a hand through his untamed curls before he smiles, dimples and all.  
  
“I’m guessing you’re stealing me away from the limelight so we can go home and order takeaway, am I right?” Zayn remarks, voice shaky with post-adrenaline. Harry smirked knowingly, before pulling out of the parked space behind the dank alley.  
  
Harry carefully dodged random pedestrians or couples that hang out behind the events location, trying not to attract too much attention as to why he’s driving out of a deserted alleyway behind an even more closed off, isolated buildings.  
  
Zayn’s fingers twitch in his lap and on his knees. His hands feel lonely and bare because he’s not gripping that familiar cotton covered steering wheel, instead gripping onto his denim jeans with clammy hands.  
  
“Did you see that guy you were racing against?” Harry pipes up. Harry professionally steers through the quiet streets that only can be described as after midnight hours. The street lamps even seem to dim as they pass by. “God, he was so pissed off.”  
  
“He was playing dirty,” Zayn sighs. “On the second lap, he swerved into me when I got in front.” Harry glared in the general direction in front of him. Zayn knew Harry didn’t like it when his opponents played dirty, just to win. It could get Zayn and his competitor seriously hurt.  
  
“I should really pull you out of all this shit,” Harry finally retorts, glancing over at Zayn with wide, serious eyes. “I promised your-”  
  
Zayn cut him off with a glare. End of discussion. Zayn wasn’t entering that minefield, not tonight. He was still on his high and he didn’t need the fire to be put out just yet. Harry backed off though with a warning glare and a friendly smirk.  
  
Zayn’s flat came in to view. It was the upstairs flat of a two-story building. It sat above a noisy, students flat where obnoxious punk music leaked through the thin ceiling and taunted Zayn with all of its mite. Zayn wanted to up and move, but Harry liked the place and Zayn guesses it’s fine for now.  
  
Harry parked the car at the back of the house, circling twice until he finally parked into its usual spot and jumped out without waiting for Zayn. Zayn ended up locking the doors whilst glancing around, making sure they didn’t wake anybody in their little arrival, but all was clear and Zayn trekked back up to his apartment.  
  
Zayn climbed the two steps leading to the front door, shutting out the shitty guitar solo’s leaking through the cracks of the walls and door just on the side of his stairs. Zayn glared, locking the main door connecting both of the flats, before hunkering up the stairs to his own, peaceful flat.  
  
Zayn wishes he had something to come home to. A dog, a cat. Something that after his high, his adrenaline rush, he can come home and settle into the sofa with them, tell them about his day and finally shut off the world and end the day with a cuddle. Instead, he came home to a freezing, plain room. A tattered sofa and armchair, a TV that hung from the wall and a few cabinets with a rare picture of him and Harry resting on top.  
  
No wall paper, just bare white concrete that gives the room a cold stare and feeling. Dark curtains are drawn shut, the little arched doorway that leads into the kitchen is showing a shadowed room and the door leading to the bathroom and bedroom is shut tight.  
  
A maroon strip of carpet covers the middle of the wooden floor in front of the sofa, a rectangular oak coffee table sat in the middle of it. The top was littered in cans, beer bottles and a few ashtrays. Zayn sighed, looking over to the sofa where Harry is crashed out and sleeping, soft snores drifting from him.  
  
Zayn, like the good friend he is, draped the afghan on the back of the sofa over Harry’s sleeping form. Zayn locks the door on the way back through and then heads to bed.  
  
Zayn’s bed is just as plain as his living room, just with a little more colour. His bedding is black with a red stripe running along the bottom of it. Zayn doesn’t bother with stripping back the covers, instead he throws his clothes off, letting them fall where they do and he bounces down on his bed, hands already clinging to his pillow.  
  
Zayn falls asleep to the cold breeze of his drafty window ghosting over his bare skin. He clings to his pillow like it might leave him, just like some people had easily walked out of Zayn’s life. What comforts Zayn though is a pillow is just that, a pillow, so there is no way it’s going to leave him. Even if that sounds stupid, it still comforts Zayn.

\- - -

  
 _Fuck_.  
  
Boiling, hot coffee spills over the top of the styrofoam cup and over Liam’s fingers. Liam glares at the cup instead of pulling away and Liam knows he’s going to regret that in a minute. Louis grips his shoulder over the counter, shaking harshly. Liam finally drops the cup and sighs, stepping back and staring at the mess in front of him.  
  
“Jesus, Li, what are you _doing_?” Louis snaps, flashing a smile apologetically at the worried looking girl next to him. “Sorry, he’s just a little stressed.” Louis says sweetly to the her, who nods and steps away for the next customer to come forward, batting her eyelashes a little too much at Louis.  
  
Louis pushes past the customers and vaults over the counter and starts pushing away from the coffee machine.  
  
Jess takes over Liam’s shift when Louis maneuvers him through the crowds of staff just finishing the night shift and into the staff lounge, where he plonks Liam on the sofa harshly. Liam looks up at him slowly, waiting for the infamous ‘(talk’ for how daydreaming at work is bad for your health.  
  
Louis is just staring though, his blue eyes impossibly scrutinizing and his eyes roam Liam’s face. Liam suddenly feels self conscious, the twitching of his clammy hand wanting to reach up and cover his features.  
  
“You look like shit,” Louis remarks, pursing his lips angrily. Liam smiles at his friends honesty.  
  
“Thanks.” Liam grins, before getting up and walking over to the sink in the corner, where he runs his throbbing hand under the cold water. It doesn’t take Louis a few seconds before he’s behind Liam and tending his hand for him.  
  
“You know,” Louis starts, staring down at Liam’s hands whilst his fingers rub softly over Liam’s skin. “I think maybe you getting a job in a place where you have to serve scalding hot coffee and teas is a bad idea.”  
  
Liam raises an eyebrow. “You think?” It had been Louis’ idea anyway, seen as every other job he’s had has ended badly, either stuff happened at home or maybe just Liam’s wasn’t up for it. It always ended badly.  
  
“Liam,” Louis drags out his name, his lips falling into a pout. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Liam holds back on rolling his eyes, but instead he settles for a little perk of his eyebrows. “Nothing, Lou, seriously, stop worrying you’re acting like my mother.”  
  
Louis glares, but he runs his hands over the short bristles of Liam’s hair. “You need sleep, a takeaway and a stupid, totally unnecessary romantic chick-flick movie.”  
  
“I-I have to study, my assignment-” Liam is cut short by a punch to the arm.  
  
“This is why you _need_ this, fool,” Louis snaps. “This is suppose to be helping you, giving you a break.”  
  
Liam doesn’t want to agree. Liam doesn’t want to relax, all he needs is to finish his English essay and a History paper and then he can relax. But right now, he just  _can’t_. Louis is pouting though, and his blue eyes are glistening as if on cue. Liam winces and looks away, down at his hand where the cool water is sliding off of Liam’s skin gracefully.  
  
“And don’t bullshit me Payne, this isn’t about your grades, you can get into any university you want, besides the point, this is about Lucas, isn’t it?” Louis says a little softer, but the anger and annoyance is still in the back of his throat.

Liam’s eyes snap up to his face quickly before dropping back down to watch his own hands. Liam’s chest felt tighter, just by saying (his name. Liam felt sick, his stomach was churning rapidly and he sucked in a deep breath to keep down the vile feeling in his stomach.  
  
“I knew it,” Louis growled harshly. “You’re losing sleep over _that_ , Liam?” Louis scoffs, letting go of Liam’s hand to pace around the room. “He was such an asshole, he still is, and I thought he could change,” A laugh fills the room, even though nothing is humorous. Louis sucked in a breath, before running a hand through his hair messily.  
  
“Lou, it was my fault,” Liam says quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. “I brought it on myself, I fell in love with the wrong person.” Liam shrugged like it was nothing, but he didn’t miss the fact his heart was thumping.  
  
Images filled his head of that night, walking into Liam’s bedroom, and finding Lucas fucking another boy into the mattress, _Liam’s_ mattress. Liam had almost forgiven him right there and then, apologizing stupidly when he realized that Lucas had cheated on him three times and Liam had forgiven him. Not this time.  
  
“Do you still love him?” Louis asked suddenly, breaking Liam’s reverie. Liam felt the heart rise to his cheeks. Louis’ eyes widened then replaced it with glare. “Nope, _nope_ , we’re going out Saturday, that’s it, we’re going to get you laid and so drunk you won’t be able to remember _Lucas_.”  
  
Liam doubted he’d get that drunk, but he sure would try.

\- - -

  
Two days after his race, Zayn has finally recovered from his “not-moving-from-my-bed” stage like always and he’s in the bathroom before Harry, showering, getting changed and he’s in clothes that smell like Harry’s vanilla body wash.  
  
Zayn was in a definite need of a joint and caffeine. Harry was rolling one as he stepped out of the bathroom, licking the cherry flavoured rizzer and sticking it down. It was thick and Zayn eyed it hungrily. Harry moved it out of his reach though as Zayn dived for it, tumbling to the floor.  
  
“Uh-uh,” Harry chimes in a sing song voice. “I got the shit, I get the first dig.” Zayn glares at the distant memory of Zayn saying those exact words when the roles were reversed. Was it only yesterday morning?  
  
Zayn sighs, rolls his eyes and sits next to Harry, leaning back into the cushions as the lighter flickers on and burns the end of it, the sound of sizzling paper making Zayn instinctively lean back. Harry sucks it in, cheeks hollowing and then he’s holding the smoke, trapping it in his mouth skillfully, eyes closing tightly and then the smoke releases and the rigidness in his shoulders disappear and he’s copying Zayns posture.  
  
Zayn snatches it off of him, not going nearly as slow as Harry. He’s puffing, choking on the quick intake of the thick smoke fogging his throat. The chemicals take effect almost instantly and he’s giggling stupidly as Harry pokes his fingers into Zayn’s ribs.  
  
After a few more longer, more dragged out puffs, Zayn is relaxed enough to finally look at his phone. There’s a few messages from Brett, asking him to drop some money down to him. A load more off random people congratulating him on his race and then theres a message he’s been regretting from the moment he laid in his bed two days ago.  
  
Just a simple time, date and location. Another race. As much as Zayn loves racing, it always brings his moods to the lowest points afterwards and Zayn hates it. Zayn doesn’t know why, he just does. Zayn sighs and pushes up off of the sofa, leaving a spaced out Harry behind him.  
  
Zayn grabs the notepad in the bottom draw, along with a pen. He scribbles the information and then rips it out of the pad, placing it on the fridge with a magnet. Zayn figures Harry will be out of it for a while, even though it’s only half eleven in the morning, so when he finally wakes up, he’ll get the preparations ready.  
  
Zayn throws his jacket and shoes on, and he’s leaving the house, passing the unusually quiet flat downstairs and out into the sunny, too happy street. People buzz pass with coffees clutched tightly in their hand whilst the other is holding a phone to their ear, and the uptight, nasal voice seeps from out of their lips.  
  
Zayn lives on a busy street, that’s why they had to park around back where there is like, a strip of empty space where the people nearby park the cars. Zayn doesn’t both with his car, instead he turns left and carries on down the crowded street.  
  
All Zayn can think about is the race on Saturday. It’s twitching in the back of his mind on a loop, just begging for Zayn’s undivided attention. Zayn enjoys the cars out of all of it. They’re sleek, shiny, glossy, (fast. Zayn loves the feel of the wind biting his cheeks and the feeling of adrenaline surging through his bloodstream when Zayn turns too quickly and he ends up scratching the paint work on a pole, or a barrel or something.  
  
Zayn likes the money, too. Really, Zayn should be pretty pleased with his part-time job, if you can even call it a job, but he’s not. It’s high pay if you win, but if you lose you get not nearly as half as much as you would get if you won. People pay people to do illegal sports, win or lose.  
  
Win or lose, there are people around you and girls there to fuck you. Apparently, fucking a bad boy, illegal no-gooder, get’s you street cred these days. Zayn’s happy to oblige because really, who else is going to fuck him?  
  
Zayn doesn’t try dating, or even try socializing for that matter because if a girl wants him, she’ll grab him and fuck him in the backseat of their boyfriends car. In Zayn’s mind, he’s useless, untalented and pretty much a waste of anybody's time. Zayn doesn't know how Harry is still here, because people who got close to Zayn left him just as quick, only leaving when whatever they wanted from him, they got. Like drugs, sex or just a pretty boy to be hanging on their arm for a few days.  
  
Zayn knew he wasn’t ugly, but he knew he wasn’t.. Pretty, or sexy. Leather jackets, ripped jeans and tattoo’s were Zayn’s forte and really, who would want a messed up partner anyway?  
  
Zayn sighed, lifting his hand to rub at his face. Seriously, Zayn needed coffee in his system _now_. Zayn glanced around, now very aware of all of the people swarming around him in the lunch hour frenzy.  
  
People seemed to be heading in the direction of a cafe on the corner of the street, so that’s where Zayn was heading.

Girls glanced at Zayn, batting eyelashes and the smell of their fruity perfume gave Zayn a headache. It was a tight squeeze into the cafe, but finally the girls giggled and squirmed away from him when he winked, and finally he was in the brightly painted cafe.  
  
The smell of fresh coffee, burnt toast and other various foods filled Zayn’s head and he relished in the thought of having a full breakfast at twelve in the afternoon with a steaming cup of coffee. Obviously, that was a dream yet to happen.  
  
Peoples orders filled the room, screaming of little kids and cups and plates clattering everywhere made Zayn want to turn around and flee from the scene, but Zayn needed this. The feeling of knowing even though you’re lonely, a filled room can make a bit better.  
  
Zayn spotted an empty table in the corner of the room. It sat in front of the window and a few dirty plates scattered it. That was fine, Zayn wasn’t so unsocial he didn’t know about the waitresses and waiters. Zayn glided through the throng of people and slid into one of the two seats. It had clear view of the cafe and it’s patients.  
  
The plates were covered in red sauce, a few half-eaten chips and empty coke cans. Zayn wrinkled his nose and pushed them away, pulling out his phone to text Harry.  
  
 _In the cafe down the road, when you’re up, come join me._  
  
In a matter of a few minutes, a text comes through, rather unintelligibly. It came across something like, _“still off of my head”_ and _“i’m seeing things”_ and _“maybe later”_. Harry was a very overreacting drug taker. He hallucinated quite a lot and very vivid talker.  
  
“Are you finished?” A voice pierced his reverie. It was gentle enough but rough around the edges, making Zayn’s eyes snap up. A tall boy stood by the table, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were a chocolate brown and his tanned skin looked flushed. His full, pink lips were set in a smile that was clearly forced and can only be recognised as pissed off.  
  
“Not mine.” Zayn adds stiffly, the closed off Zayn reappearing brightly. The boy looks affronted at Zayn’s tone, but he just leans down and gathers the plates up, quickly retreating behind the counter and through a brightly lit door.  
  
Zayn sighs, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the ends to bring him back to reality. Stupid, really he is. Zayn can’t just be nice, no, instead he has to piss people off with his lack of a polite tone.  
  
Zayn orders a coffee after that, because really, he only came in here for a caffeine fix, not to mope about impolite he is. When Zayn is sat back down, and he’s sipping his coffee, the boy appears again, this time three tables away taking orders with a bright, _real_ smile. Zayn feels a twist in his stomach because, well, he didn’t smile like that when he came over to Zayn-  
  
Zayn closes his eyes and curses himself. Breathe. Relax. Zayn opens his eyes and decides to take in more of his appearance; He’s wearing a white button up shirt with a few splatters of grease, coffee or _something_. Rather fitting black pants, defining his thighs and ass. Zayn coughs into his hand before looking out of the window.  
  
Again, watching a few people walking past the cafe with some destination in their head makes Zayn wonder why he even has friends. Really, Zayn has Harry, and maybe Brett, but thats it. He has no plans, apart from the racing and other than that he’s getting stoned or drunk.  
  
Once more, a hand swiping at his table breaks his reverie. Zayn looks up and see’s the boy again, but he’s not looking back, instead wiping the other side of the table with a dirty, ragged cloth. The boy looks in his element, because his eyes aren’t even moving from the cloth.  
  
He wipes the rest of the table and Zayn almost flinches back because of how close he is. Zayn can smell him; a sharp, fruity cologne filling his senses. The boy looks up then and meets Zayn’s eyes and Zayn wanted to close the gap, kiss those slightly chapped, pink lips.  
  
In the same second, he’s pulling up and flinging the cloth over his shoulder, walking away back towards the counter, leaning over and showing off his spectacular ass. Zayn wonders if he’s teasing, but then Zayn also wonders why would _he_ be teasing _Zayn_.  
  
That’s it then, Zayn only has eyes for him, brown-eyes. Zayn follows his tall, wide shouldered frame around the cafe, his eyes never meeting Zayn’s.  
  
It was on his second coffee when Zayn’s phone buzzed. Zayn sighs, finally dropping his gaze from Brown-Eyes to his phone. It’s a text, from Harry.  
  
 _you still there?_  
  
Zayn mutters incoherent words but replies with a swift _“yeah”_. Harry’s reply comes almost instantly.  
  
 _gd, order me a tea._  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes before letting them roam around the room almost on their own accord. The boy is standing by the door, the cafe now empty enough for people to move. The lunch frenzy has ended and only about five groups sat around.  
  
The boy was standing with two boys; a boy with a brown, soft-looking fringe and the other with a short, blond, fashionable bed head hair. They were attractive, Zayn decides. The taller out of the three, the waiter, looks over at Zayn then and Zayn ignores the fact his stomach may or may not have done a flip.  
  
He turned his attention back to his friends though, and an eye-creasing smile lit up his face. Zayn’s breath hitched because, _wow_ , that was something else. Zayn swallowed the churning in his stomach, swallowed the fact that smile wasn’t for _him_.  
  
The boy reached forward, his fingers toying with the blond’s bag he was holding, leaning forward to peek in and see the contents. Another smile, and another look towards Zayn. Zayn run a hand through his hair before looking away, a smile of his own appearing on his face.  
  
After a few moments, Zayn looked back over, more carefully now. The boy with the fringe was looking over, a half glare, half scrutinizing look in his eyes. Then he turned back to brown-eyes, smiling sweetly and saying something Zayn couldn’t make out.  
  
The blond looked over then for a second, a smirk on his face before turning back to brown-eyes, whose cheeks had turned a delicious, light pink. Zayn smiled again, before reaching for a napkin that sat on the table.  Zayn pulled the marker he had tucked in his jacket pocket and wrote unthinkingly the address, date and time for his race. Everything in him tried to put the breaks down, to stop whatever he was about to do, but he pushed to his feet and carried on.  
  
Zayn gripped the napkin, ignoring the slightly alarming look in the boy with the fringe’s eyes. Zayn sucked in a deep breath before smiling calmly, and stopped just behind blondy, pausing a second before passing the napkin to brown-eyes, who took it cautiously.  
  
Zayn turned away, ignoring the hostile look in the guy with fringe’s bright, blue eyes. Zayn made it out of the cafe in one piece, but with a beverage short. Zayn would just have to make Harry a cup of tea instead.

\- - -


End file.
